I once made a joke wondering if there was a female Rod McKuen, but it is no longer funny. Not that they write much alike, though they may. I can barely remember McKuen's drivel. What I mean is that a vapidness of thought and expression unite them.
In this book, Malloy writes about love, mostly. If this is all there is to love, I would forswear it forever, for the love in this book is selfish, hurtful, unconcerned about abusing the one loved, though that can change a bit when Malloy is unhappy. If these poems are Malloy revealing herself rather than using a persona, I am glad I do not know her. If this is a persona's voice, one wonders why these poems were written.
I cannot say that most of the works in this book are not poems, though some are not, merely structured on the page like poems. No, the problem is that these lack metaphor, simile, ideas presented in a surprising way, grace of expression, or anything else that makes poetry worth the work we put into reading it.
I did like a very few of these poems OK and a couple are a bit arousing, and I credit Malloy for that, but the best are maybe two star works. The rest are one or none. Readers, you can do better.